Mycroft's Journal
by JoyRose10
Summary: After the Fall, Mycroft sees John in pain and wants to help, but how? Rated T for violence. Sherlock seen at age four. Not slash.
1. Chapter 1

AN: I never wanted anything to do with the Long Hiatus, or trying to second guess how the Fall resolves itself. Yet here I am writing about that period of time between the Fall itself and Sherlock's reunion with John. Careful not to speculate if Mycroft even knows that Sherlock is alive, this is just exploring his desire to help John through a difficult time as best as he can. After all, the friendship John shared with Sherlock was something Mycroft could appreciate even if he couldn't participate directly. I only wish I could claim some ownership of these amazing characters!

*** Chapter 1 ***

Mycroft didn't show his heart to many people. His mother held a special place of honor there, of course, and though most people never realized it, his brother did as well. Like many brothers, they argued and fought and were often (usually) quite disagreeable with one another. But under all that, the love Mycroft felt for Sherlock was deep and genuine. And the only person who ever seemed to fully understand that was John, until his brother jumped off the St. Bart's Hospital roof.

John was so furious with Mycroft in those first few days afterward, he was not sure the anger would ever cool. But John had an amazingly calm disposition that was uncommon in a soldier who thrived on adrenaline the way he did. A grudge had no place in that heart, and eventually John stopped berating Mycroft. He stopped even acknowledging Mycroft's existence. It was hard to tell if forgiveness would ever seep into the void left in John's heart, but Mycroft respected the truce that grew in its place. Mycroft had a high degree of respect, admiration, even affection for his brother's best friend. Not only had John provided companionship to a man otherwise socially inept, but he had also saved Sherlock's life on more than one occasion. Mycroft owed the doctor more than he could ever repay, even if there was nothing either of them could have done to alter the outcome of Sherlock's decision on that roof.

Mycroft knew John Watson was in pain, physical and emotional. Losing Sherlock had taken its toll on him, and there was little Mycroft could do even with all the nearly limitless resources at his disposal. He'd watched the CCTV footage of the stalwart man limping around London, trying to soldier on despite what he now knew was psychosomatic pain. The cane had made its reappearance in contempt of John's attempts to avoid acknowledging the weakness.

Mycroft gently rested his elegant fingers against his lips for a moment as he considered his options. He had respected John's private grief, but now he was becoming worried. Weight was dropping off John at an alarming rate. The soft, bulky jumpers he favored so now hung in shared misery on his broad shoulders. Visits with family and friends, even that useless therapist, had done little to ameliorate the clear signs of suffering.

Mycroft strained to think of a solution to help his brother's best friend recover at least some of his former strength and purpose. He found his thoughts turned back to a time when he had been so damaged himself that he wasn't sure he could survive, either. An idea began to form in his mind, though even as it blossomed, Mycroft harbored doubts it would work. Not to mention the sensitive nature of his "solution" was ... delicate, and quite personal. Sharing personal data from his own past was not generally Mycroft's modus operandi. He considered the situation for quite some time before finally deciding exactly how he would proceed.

John eyed the black limo with a mixture of distaste and resignation. There really didn't seem any point in attempting to ignore Mycroft's summons. The lovely girl typing endlessly on her Blackberry stepped out of the car to usher him in before sitting next to him, still distracted the entire time by her device as usual. By now John didn't even try to talk to her, but rode in stoic silence until they arrived at the tasteful Diogenes club where Mycroft seemed most often in residence.

His cane seemed loud even against the plush carpet as he made his way to Mycroft's "office." He simply sat in the extra chair, awaiting whatever it was Mycroft wanted to say this time. John couldn't think of a single thing Mycroft could say that would make any difference to him whatsoever.

"You have not written in your blog for quite a while, Dr. Watson," Mycroft began.

"No." John dismissed the idea before it had been fully presented. His therapist had tried that tack, too, but there just didn't seem any point now. He wondered briefly at Mycroft's formality of address, but as with most things these days, the mystery didn't hold his interest.

Mycroft opened a drawer and pulled out an old notebook of the sort children used in school. He opened it and flipped through its pages until he found what he was looking for.

"Sometimes writing is the best way to clarify one's thinking," Mycroft said as he held the notebook out to John, who took it tentatively. "Sometimes it is the only way to truly understand our own hearts." Mycroft poured tea while John took the notebook into his lap and began to read the careful handwriting.

_Journal, Mycroft Holmes, age 11_

_I am told Sherlock is too young to remember the events of last summer since he was only 4, but I'm not sure that's true. People often underestimate both of us. Even so, I'm hoping that the advice I've been given about writing this journal is true, that it will stop or at least decrease the frequency of my own night terrors._


	2. Chapter 2

_*** Chapter 2, Mycroft's Journal continues... ****_

_So to begin with some background. My father has always held an important post in the government which he is ... was ... rarely at liberty to discuss with us, his family. However, he had always taken time from his busy schedule to spend with each of us and with the family as a whole when possible. Every summer we have taken a trip abroad, each year to some new, exciting location. While we were aware that the trips were not simply family vacations, as my father often had business to conduct, they were still filled with fun and interesting things to do. My mother carefully planned outings to museums and historical sites as well as parks and other fun activities. She always made sure we had such a grand time!_

_This past summer we visited New York City in the United States of America. I was rather excited as that is further than we had ever traveled before. We spent endless evenings planning our visit to various sites with my mother as usual. Sherlock was of course too young to pay very much attention to the travel books, but Mummy and I discussed the multitude of options in great detail. My father made a point of planning to join us at the American Museum of Natural History on the fourth day of our visit. Time with him was always our first priority because he was always so busy._

_The museum itself was not much different from countless other similar museums around the world, but it was nice, with many interesting exhibits and fun things to see and do. Sherlock took it all in at top speed as usual, literally running from one part to another, his high, annoying voice exclaiming over each fresh find. While Mummy expected him to be most excited about the dinosaur exhibit, it was actually the minerals that seemed to catch his attention for the longest period of time. I thought the Hall of Human History was most interesting, and my father agreed with me. The time line was fascinating, showing the progress from ancient man to our current form. And all the people are stuffed and still, easy to study and as such rather agreeable. The most interesting part were the gaps no one has puzzled out how to fill in yet. _

_When we stepped outside, Sherlock and I argued about which way to proceed. Sherlock wanted to walk, always full of too much energy. I wanted to take a taxi because it would be faster, of course. Father had just lit his pipe to avoid adding to our "discussion" and Mummy, as usual, quietly listened to both of us until we should work it out for ourselves. She hates when we argue but can't bring herself to take sides against either of us, so we do it anyway. _

_That was when the car drove by. A gun suddenly poked out the window exactly as it pulled even with us. Father noticed it before I did. He stepped in front of us, effectively blocking the bullets from touching anyone by himself. The sound of the gun, the smoke, the car driving off... all these things still haunt my dreams in a blur of perceptions. The blood blossoming on his chest froze my own. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. Sherlock was screaming, trying to stop the bleeding with his small hands. I don't remember Mummy calling for help, but she must have done because suddenly she was bringing medics from an ambulance to us. Sherlock's hands were covered in Father's blood as I pulled him off the clearly lifeless body. My mother was crying as if she would never be able to stop, ever. Even as they took his body away and she put her arms around us, her body never stopped shaking with her sobs. I was crying then, too. We spent the next several hours just crying. What else could we do? I know big boys aren't supposed to cry, but I couldn't really seem to stop. I'm getting better at that now._

_Sherlock stopped first, perhaps because he is youngest. He sat solemnly (I had to look that word up, but it exactly fits his expression), with hot, flushed cheeks and dry eyes rimmed so red that the silvery irises seemed to take on a ruddy tinge. It gave his face an odd, almost evil look that even now with cool, dry cheeks and clear eyes, he still looks a little haunted. I don't think he's too young at all. I think he remembers every detail as clearly as I do. He plays and explores and annoys as he always has, full of energy and curiosity, but there is that look in his eyes always now. He seems obsessed with details of everything. He told me once that he never wanted to miss something important again. Sometimes I think he forgets to go to sleep as he thinks about his latest puzzles._

_Mummy has never quite been the same since then. There is a listlessness to her every movement. There are times, when she thinks no one is looking, that she cries silently even now. I know she tries to keep a brave face for our sakes, Sherlock's and mine. It is scary to think some things can undo even the most constant of adults._

_I need a plan. I need to make sure I am never again this helpless. I will make sure no people ever get this close to my family again to do them harm. I will learn who is planning what, know all there is to know about the interactions and politics of adults so never again will I be so surprised, so unprepared to deal with events. People think because I am so young there is nothing I can do or understand. As usual, most people underestimate me._

The writing stopped. The following page was blank. John looked up at Mycroft, who handed him a cup of tea. John took it in one hand and set it negligently on the side table next to the chair. He looked back to Mycroft, large warm eyes meeting cool ones, but for a long silence neither man said anything.

Finally John asked, "Did the night terrors ease?"

Mycroft shrugged eloquently. "Perhaps a little more as time passes," he admitted. John reflected that the many years that had passed since Mycroft was eleven were still not completely effective, and felt a new sorrow for his erstwhile flatmate mingle with others he still refused to contemplate as he realized the pain probably had haunted Sherlock as well. Mycroft continued, "Putting feelings and thoughts into words can focus one's energies into more productive lines."

John glanced at the next empty pages of the journal. "What plans did you make?" he asked, looking back up to meet the eyes of one of the most powerful and intelligent men he'd ever met.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at John's audacity. "At that age, the promise was all I could think of, but since then I have cultivated relationships, gathered intelligence, and aligned alliances to benefit my family and my country. And I have learned, though I will deny it should you ever repeat it, that even all the preparation, all the knowledge, and all the resources in the world, can not prevent surprising events for which I may be less prepared than I would like." He retrieved the notebook, gazed at it thoughtfully, then replaced it back in the drawer. "But don't give up, John. I know it may not look like it now, but you have options you have not even considered. Writing may help you see them." He raised his elegant eyebrows and asked, "What have you left to lose?"

John drank the tea slowly, a distracted look distancing himself from the room and Mycroft. Finally he put it down and nodded absently as he stood. As he reached the door, he turned back to Mycroft and said, "I'll think about it." He thought a moment and added, "Thank you, Mycroft." Then he left.

Mycroft was gratified to note John's blog had a new entry within the week. It was brief, but it was hopefully a beginning down a path of recovery for the one man in the world who had given Sherlock the key to being truly human.

Author's Note: Thank you, beautybells, for being my beta and encouraging me in my first fanfic attempt. And thank you, dear readers, for taking an interest in my story. I hope you enjoyed it! As always, reviews are loved!


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